Killing Time
by folliesandfictions
Summary: With Sam out working a case, Dean is forced to resign himself to a lonely night with the bottle... or so he thinks.


"Seriously man, I've been able to fight my own battles since long before the day I got taller than you."

"I remember that day. It sucked."

A dry chuckle escaped the handset, distorted and tinny. "Just keep yourself outta sight, okay? I got this one."

The call cut off with a single bleep; Dean looked at the screen for a moment longer before throwing the handset onto the nearest bed with slightly more force than was necessary. Being caged like an animal did not suit him, something which was becoming only more apparent as he paced up and down the floor of the motel room.

"Don't be so hard on your brother, Dean. He's right."

Dean spun around sharply, coming face to face with a familiar trenchcoat-clad figure merely inches away. He jumped backwards, his shock turning to an expression of exasperation. "Dammit, Cas! What have I told you about doing that?"

"The creature has your scent," the angel continued, unperturbed. "Your presence would only jeopardise the mission."

"What, is that supposed to make me feel better about being stuck here?" Turning his back on Castiel, Dean walked over to where his bag lay and pulled out an empty glass bottle. He cursed before replacing it and drawing another, relieved to find this one half full. "What are you doing showing up here, anyway? I thought you had some world-destroying war to fight or something."

"Things are… under control."

Dean glanced up at the angel's face: his expression was impassive enough, but keeping eye contact seemed to prove a challenge. He shook his head. "Bullcrap. Cas, you are the worst liar I have ever met." Returning his attention to the bottle, he produced two tumblers and poured an inch of the golden brown liquor into each.

"There is a strategy in place. I have left our soldiers in safe hands." Castiel's eyes were still trained to the ground; whatever was going on upstairs, it sure as hell wasn't 'safe.' It was only a matter of time before Raphael's forces proved too strong to overcome, even with the measures he had been taking as of late. He hated himself for it, but what else could he do? Too many sacrifices had been made already and he wasn't about to let all their hard work go to waste. The Winchesters had saved the world; he owed it to them to keep it that way.

"Whatever, man. If you're sticking around, then you're helping me finish this. No way am I waiting this out sober." The words had barely left Dean's lips before Castiel was next to him, taking the drink from his hand. Clinking glasses, they each drained them in one mouthful and poured another measure. Dean took a seat at the table and motioned for Castiel to sit opposite. "Just how much does it take to get you drunk, anyway?"

Castiel thought for a moment. "Probably enough to kill an average human, but with your drinking habits it would most likely only hospitalise you. I wouldn't suggest trying to keep up."

Dean glanced up over the top of his glass. "Dude, it was a rhetorical question."

"Then why would you ask it? What is the purpose of a question if not to be answered?" He tilted his head curiously, a familiar expression that was as frustrating as it was endearing.

Dean sighed. This was going to be a long night.

* * *

><p>"… And I don't know, it's like one second he's my kid brother again and the next he reminds me so much of Dad, or of me, and I just wanna…" He finished with an unintelligible grunt and a gesticulation that did little to aid comprehension. The bottle from earlier stood empty next to them; another was beside it, and Dean was now in the process of opening a third. Another might be bored by the hours of drunkenly circling the same topics, but Castiel still sat and listened as intently as he had been doing all night. The burning of the scotch in his throat had become permanent after roughly the fifth glass, but still he continued to match Dean drink for drink. He never understood what humans saw in the foul potion; it tasted vile and had little effect unless drunk by the storeful. His hands and his vision were as steady as they had been when he had arrived – the same could not be said of his drinking partner. It was curious, the way a simple mixture of chemicals could have secrets spilling from those who usually kept them so closely guarded; Castiel had seen them lurking at the corners of his eyes, but never had he heard them let slip so freely before. It was a window to the soul, perhaps not as direct as touching it but in many ways more meaningful because of that. As for less painful… well, there were many types of pain, and it seemed this human had been scarred by most of them.<p>

"Well go on then, say something." Castiel blinked himself out of his reverie, the confusion on his face apparent. Dean shook his head and took another swig. "You weren't listening to a word I said, were you? Too busy with the whole 'unblinking stare' thing, huh? Don't worry, I get it."

The angel's eyes flickered down to his glass. "Forgive me. I am unaccustomed to… this." He gestured vaguely around him, not lifting his gaze.

"Whatever. It doesn't matter. At least you're there for me to talk to, even if you can't be bothered listening. Y'know, I've never really had someone I can talk to properly."

"You have Sam."

Dean's laugh was devoid of humour. "Whatever he says, he's still my little brother. I can't go piling all my crap on him. He's got enough of his own anyway."

By this point, the bottle was half empty. "Dean, I really think you should slow d-" He was cut off by Dean slamming his empty glass back on the table; Castiel took the bottle away before he had chance to pour another. His intention that night had been to make sure that Dean did nothing stupid whilst his brother was gone; he now saw that such a mission was doomed from the start. Staying in Heaven would have been the smart option, the logical choice, but somehow logic never did seem to factor into his equations where Dean Winchester was concerned. To drop everything for a single human soul was foolish and he knew it, but he was the boys' guardian. How much of that position had been self-assigned was something he had not quite worked out yet.

"… What I'm trying to say is, we never stuck around anywhere long enough to make any friends. I'm in my thirties and I've never had a friend until now. What does that make me, Cas?" His words were slurred, his expression pleading.

Not for the first time, Castiel was lost for an answer. He tried to begin more than once, but when nothing would come he simply gave up. This degree of empathy – the little he knew of the feeling – was hardly something that could be expressed in words, at any rate; to do so would doubtless cheapen their bond.

Their eyes locked, Dean noticed the strangeness of the expression with which Castiel looked at him. It was nigglingly familiar in its softness, though he couldn't think where from. He frowned for a moment at the notion that was attempting to piece itself together in his considerably alcohol-impaired brain. It was ridiculous. Although… What was it that son of a bitch had said?

"Look, Cas…" Dean paused, unsure how to phrase the question. The angel looked at him expectantly, which did little to allay his thoughts. A part of him hoped he had drank enough to forget this in the morning; the way his head was swimming told him that indeed that would probably be the case. "Last time we saw Balthazar, he… he said something. Something kinda weird."

Castiel started. What had Balthazar been running his mouth off about this time? More importantly, why to the Winchesters of all people? If there was anyone his plan needed to be kept secret from, it was Dean. He dreaded to think what would happen if his friend found out about their schemes; as horrible as lying to him was, Castiel suspected that telling the truth would be far worse. "You know what Balthazar is like." His answer came too fast, too abruptly; the knuckles resting clasped on the edge of the table were clenched to white. "Most likely his idea of a joke. I will have words."

"A joke. Yeah. Of course." Still not entirely convinced, Dean opted instead to shake away the idea. Balthazar wasn't being serious. He couldn't have been.

Dean sighed. Perhaps after another few drinks he might actually believe himself. Reaching forwards, he realised for the first time that the liquor bottle was no longer in front of him; it stood on the opposite side of the table, within the reach of any sober person but far too much effort to stretch to for the inebriated.

"Are you gonna give me that bottle back, or… ?"

"I think that would be unwise."

Another sigh escaped Dean's lips, more frustrated this time. "Great. Thanks." He paused for a moment, but Castiel did not reply. "Fine, if you're gonna go all responsible on me then I'm hitting the hay." With his palms flat on the table he attempted to lever himself up, but barely managed to take two steps before lurching wildly to the left. Castiel was there in an instant; pulling Dean's arm around his shoulder, he supported his friend across the room towards the bed and let him drop there in a rather ungainly manner. The older Winchester displayed a startling lack of coordination as he attempted to arrange his body into a position at least vaguely comfortable for sleeping, eventually settling for a sprawled mess of limbs and bedding that was more to do with being devoid of further motivation than anything else. "Yo, you wanna hit that light for me? Thanks, man."

"Goodnight, Dean."

"And for the love of God, watch some TV or something instead of just standing there doing the creepy staring thing!" Dean rolled over onto his side, facing away from the angel at the corner of the mattress.

"Of course. Though I hardly understand how that would benefit God."

"Oh, for f… It's just an expression, Cas. Believe me, I kinda got the message by now that God doesn't give a crap."


End file.
